


Attention

by ultharkitty



Series: Problems with Combaticons (fallout from the Spare Parts Incident) [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drag Strip wants to win at things you’re not supposed to win at, like seducing a Combaticon.</p><p>This follows on from 'Taking One for the Team', although you don't need to have read that to read this.</p><p>Content advice: crack, p'n'p.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I ain’t gonna lie to you about your chances,” Wildrider said, kicking his heels against the side of the berth. “But… you got my sympathies.”

Drag strip glared. Misquoting movies again, classy. There was no way Wildrider knew what ‘sympathies’ meant. “And what would you know about it? Slowpoke.”

“Frag you…” Wildrider paused, presumably while his processor went through a list of mildly witty, acerbic taunts. “You yellow-aftded spawn of a trash compacter!”

So predictable.

“Touché,” Dead End commented, not bothering to look up from his datapad.

“Not slaggin’ touché,” Drag Strip snarled. “Afted isn’t a word, and he knows squat.”

“It is a word,” Dead End replied.

“Is not.” Drag Strip muttered. Dead End always had to take someone else’s side, never the side that had him on it and was therefore right.

“Is so,” Wildrider said. “And anyway, you got someplace to be now, right? I mean, if you wanna get your shiny yellow backside handed to you.”

“You…” Drag Strip clenched his denta. He was above all this. He was cool, he was calm. Wildrider wasn’t getting to him; he was better than that. Yeah, he was so much better than that. A smile caught at his faceplates. He was the best.

And he was going to prove it.

As he neared the door, Dead End looked up, briefly, from his reading. “Drag Strip?”

He paused. “Yeah?”

“Remember to update your firewalls before you go.”

* * *

How he made it into the corridor without clocking the both of them, Drag Strip wasn’t exactly sure. But he did. And it was a good feeling. They were, after all, his team mates. They were cool, usually, and Wildrider could be a lot of fun. Dead End not so much, but he was fast – not as fast as Drag Strip, though, obviously – and he knew stuff.

Well, some stuff. ‘Afted’ _so_ wasn’t a word.

Drag Strip stopped by one of the Nemesis’s viewing windows. The brightness of the interior lights coupled with the darkness outside made it a decent mirror. He gave himself an appreciative grin. Handsome _and_ fast, good combination. And no smuts, either.

Looking fine, slag yeah.

Of course, he had no idea whether the new mechs liked that kind of thing. But pah, he was the hottest thing on six wheels, who wouldn’t want a piece of him?

He caught the echo of approaching footsteps, and leant against the wall, nonchalant and incredibly alluring. Yep, utterly irresistible. Especially to a mature, excitingly dangerous and highly experienced mech (if you believed the rumours, and Drag Strip certainly did) who’d spent the past few million years in the Detention Centre. And the past week or so in the brig.

But, as the mech turned the corner, Drag Strip slumped.

“Breakdown? Frag.”

“Don’t sound so pleased to see me,” Breakdown said. “You’re not seriously going through with this?”

“Sure am,” Drag Strip said. “Or I would be, if you’d just, y’know, slag off. They got back at 0200 hours, he’s gotta come past here to get to his recharge.”

“Uh…” Breakdown glanced around, his engine giving a nervous little stutter. “And you want to go with him? He’s creepy.”

“So?” Drag Strip preened. Creepy, he could handle. Creepy came hand-in-hand with obsessive, which was just another word for attentive. “Don’t give me that look, Breaky.”

“Don’t call me Breaky,” Breakdown mumbled, but his words weren’t important so Drag Strip spoke right over him.

“He’s just got out of prison, got a new body and all that. He’ll be extra grateful for the attention, especially coming from me.” A new set of footsteps rang out, two sets by the sound of things. “Slag, they’re coming, hide!”

Breakdown didn’t need to be told twice. He was a good partner, all in all, huddling under a bench by the window, making himself scarce to give Drag Strip a better chance. Well, it wasn’t like anyone was going to look twice at him with Mr scaredy-capacitor standing alongside, trembling when anyone so much as looked at him. They’d be too busy laughing.

But by himself, yeah, Drag Strip was un-missable.

Just like those rotors. He’d never seen a rotary mech before Vortex showed up. But he’d soon realised that there was something about parts that spun around that made his engine rev like crazy. And that was without the rumours.

Yeah, there was nothing like a truly dangerous mech to get Drag Strip’s circuits buzzing.

And how they buzzed.

Drag Strip waited until Vortex had rounded the corner, giving him an astrosecond or two to fully appreciate the splendid and highly attractive vista laid out before him, before stepping neatly into his path.

“Blast Off, for frag sake!” Vortex dodged Drag Strip without looking and carried on. “How many times do I have to say I didn’t mean it!”

So, that explained who the other mech was. Drag Strip didn’t really care; he was large and bulky and not at all interesting. Even the angry growl of his engines just seemed dull.

Drag Strip tried again, nipping in front of Vortex, and adopting his most attractive pose.

“Hey,” he said.

“Frag off.” Vortex tried to dodge again, but Drag Strip employed his superior speed to good effect. Now, if only the shuttle would keep on walking and… yes! Blast Off rounded the corner, vanishing from sight.

“Gah!” Vortex yelled. “Fraggit, Thrusters, come back here you obstinate scrapheap!”

But Blast Off had gone, and Vortex – finally! – gave Drag Strip the attention he deserved. He looked the Stunticon over, his visor gleaming like freshly-spilled squishy innards.

“What the slag is wrong with you? Get out of my way.”

OK, _not_ the attention Drag Strip deserved. But it was attention, and if he let a temporary setback get to him, he wouldn’t be the best.

He flashed a grin; he’d heard the copter liked a challenge. “No.”

There was no warning. One moment, Drag Strip was standing in his sexy pose, the next he was up against the wall with Vortex’s hand around his throat, his pedes a good distance from the floor.

“Ugh!” He tried to speak, but Vortex was crushing his vocaliser.

“Now,” Vortex growled. “Keep the slag out of my way, understand?”

He didn’t wait for Drag Strip to acknowledge him, but suddenly his aft was on the floor and Vortex had vanished, his footfalls heavy in the thankfully empty corridor.

Empty apart from Breakdown, whose optics glowed from the gloom under the bench.

Breakdown waited until Vortex was out of earshot before whispering, “Wildrider will say he told you so.”

“Shut up,” Drag Strip snapped, his voice crackly and unclear. “This isn’t over. I’m gonna win this, you’ll see.”

Breakdown muttered something that sounded like, “I don’t think it’s a competition”, but Drag Strip knew otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

Breakdown emerged from under the bench. He really wasn’t keen on Vortex; there was just something about the mech that made his paintwork crawl. And there was Drag Strip darting off after him like the unintentionally suicidal chipless moron he was.

“Hey!” Breakdown yelled, although admittedly not very loudly. “Drag Strip!”

“No time!” Drag Strip called back.

Breakdown sighed. Evidently not. After a moment’s hesitation, he commed Dead End for backup, then slunk off along the corridor after his team mate.

* * *

“Thrusters! Let me the frag in!”

OK, so Vortex hadn’t vanished into his recharge yet. That was good. Drag Strip paused and poked his head around the corner. The copter was leaning with his palms and helm against a door. Drag Strip could just about make out Blast Off’s voice from inside.

“Slag. Off.”

“Seriously, Blast Off, open the door.” Vortex gave the metal a solid kick. “We need to talk.”

“No.” Again, the same muffled voice, the same dry, emotionless tone. “We don’t.”

“We slaggin’ well do!” Vortex snarled. “Open the slaggin’ door or you’re not gonna have a door left to open!”

Drag Strip huffed. What did Blast Off have that he didn’t? Nothing, that’s what. Sure, he could fly in space. _Bor_ ing. And leg-mounted cannons? Pah! Drag Strip had a cannon, and it was a far sleeker design too. _And_ he had shoulder tyres. Nice, perfectly round and tastily bouncy shoulder tyres. Wildrider liked his shoulder tyres, and Vortex was kinda like Wildrider in the crazy stakes, so it stood to reason that Vortex ought to like them too.

But had he noticed? Slag, he didn’t even notice when Drag Strip stepped confidently around the corner, and leant up against the wall in full view. He cocked his hip, crossed his arms, and lifted one knee, his foot flat against the panelling. Damn, he was hot. But no, a reaction was not forthcoming.

“Frag you, Blast Off! I’m coming in whether you like it or not!”

Drag Strip glowered; stupid shuttle. It grated that captain monotone was the focus of the copter’s attentions, when it should so obviously have been him.

The Stunticon comm. channel opened just as Vortex started punching the door.

//Dead End to Drag Strip, you’re going to get yourself killed.//

//No I’m not.// Drag Strip adjusted his pose to display his spoiler to its best possible advantage. He didn’t need a mirror to tell how good he looked, he’d practiced in front of one often enough.

“Come on, Thrusters, please?” Vortex began to pace, three quick steps either way. “Let me in! I just wanna talk to you. Seriously.” There was no response. “For frag sake, open up! This is your last warning, Blast Off, let me the slag in!”

//Yes,// Dead End said. //You are. We’re over here.// He sent a quick triangulation pulse; they were in the same place Drag Strip had been before he decided to make himself more conspicuous. //And we can hear him. That is _not_ a healthy team dynamic.//

Drag Strip shrugged. Those doors were solid, Vortex wasn’t about to get through. Sooner or later, he’d get bored with his stupid, dumb-aft team mate, and notice the incredibly stylish and attractive speed racer down the hall.

“I fraggin’ mean it!” Vortex snarled. He gave the door one more heavy thump, and Drag Strip was horrified to see that the metal actually bent. Then he started kicking.

Drag Strip stared. OK, the Combaticon was strong; doors really shouldn’t bow like that. Not on the Nemesis anyway. He winced as the glass in Vortex’s foot shattered, but Vortex didn’t seem to notice.

//That doesn’t sound good,// Dead End commented over the comm-link.

Drag Strip pursed his lips and refused to respond. How the frag long was this going to take anyway? Sure, he could win at it, but as far as competitive sports went, the waiting game was the one he enjoyed the least.

Then the door opened. Drag Strip gaped. Stupid defective shuttle, why in the name of Sigma did he have to give in! What was wrong with him?

The muzzle of a plasma rifle emerged from the gloom. It stopped half a mechanometer from Vortex’s chest plates. The copter’s visor gleamed.

“All right,” Blast Off said. “Talk.”

Drag Strip’s engine revved, and not in the good way. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.

“Not out here,” Vortex said. He flicked his thumb at Drag Strip. “We’ve got an audience.”

Drag Strip gaped. He _had_ noticed! The slagger had seen him and… and _ignored_ him! How in all the universe was that even possible? No one ignored Drag Strip!

The gun juddered. “Get in,” Blast Off rumbled. “But talking is all you’re doing. Try anything else, and I mean _anything_ , and there won’t be enough left of you for Hook to piece back together. Understand?”

“Sure, sure,” Vortex said. He pushed past the gun and vanished from sight. “For frag sake, it was only an interface cable.”

The door closed and Drag Strip glared. Only an interface cable? So, it was like that then, was it?

“Well.” Dead End rounded the corner, followed closely by Breakdown. “You’re not dead.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Drag Strip growled.

“You’ve seen what he’s like,” Breakdown said. “Pick someone else, yeah?”

Drag Strip shook his head. That sounded far too much like giving in, which was the same thing as losing. “No,” he said. The game had changed, but the goal was still the same. Sure, he had competition now, but there was no question about it, he was going to win.


	3. Chapter 3

Two joors later, and Vortex was in repairs.

“What the slag are you looking at?” the copter snapped.

Drag Strip shrugged. “You.” He lounged next to the spare parts rack, by far and away the hottest thing in medbay. The second hottest thing was stretched out on the berth, a gaping hole in his chassis, his rotors trapped beneath him. Sad that they weren’t spinning, but the ends quivered a little, as though begging to be touched. Somehow, Drag Strip made himself wait.

Beneath the smoke-streaked translucent glass of his visor, Vortex’s optics were just about visible. They narrowed. “Slag off.”

“No,” Drag Strip said. Sure, last time he’d told Vortex ‘no’, it hadn’t gone well for him. But this time? Hydraulic fluid leaked in a steady stream from the Combaticon’s waist; he wasn’t going anywhere fast.

The copter continued to glare. “You capable of words with more that one syllable?”

Drag Strip huffed. “Sure.”

Vortex laughed and looked away.

No no no, that wasn’t good. The captive audience was meant to be looking over here, at the shiny, polished paintwork and sleek, smooth lines. At least until Hook got back, anyway.

“I mean, I can. Uh…” Slag, words of more than one syllable, he knew words like that! Although the only one he could think of right now was ‘syllable’. He could make conversation, he was highly socially adept; what the frag was wrong with him?

“What’s the matter,” Vortex said, still not looking at him. “Ravage got your glossa?”

Must be the rotors. Yeah. Frag, they were tasty. Drag Strip edged a little closer to the berth. No, not edged, he sauntered, confident and smooth, and allowed the back of his hand to brush against the tip of one of the rotor blades.

“That wound,” he said. “Looks painful.” Thank frag, a two-syllable word. “Maybe I can do something to help?”

“I doubt it.” Vortex gestured at the door. “Now, slag off.”

What the frag? Drag Strip had read up on rotaries – well, he’d got Dead End to read up on rotaries for him, but it was all the same when you got down to it. That slip of metal was meant to be more sensitive than his spoiler. And yet…

Vortex must have felt it. He was probably just being contrary. Either that or oblivious. Whichever, this wasn’t a battle Drag Strip was prepared to lose; he tried it again.

The blade juddered, and there was the slightest shift in the pitch of Vortex’s engine. Drag Strip smirked.

“Could be a while before Hook gets back,” he said, sliding his palm along the rotor, edging closer to Vortex’s shoulder. “I could help take your mind off the pain…”

Vortex glanced at him. “Can you see my laser core from there?”

“Huh?” Drag Strip paused.

Vortex sighed. “OK, zippy, basic listening comprehension, not your strong point, is it? Can you see my laser core from where you’re standing? And if you’re gonna grope me, do it properly. Frag, what’s wrong with the mechs around here? Bunch of new-model freaks.”

Drag Strip faltered. For about half an astrosecond, anyway, before the realisation hit him: the copter had given him a nickname. Round one to him, ha! He couldn’t consider it round two; what had happened earlier, that was just the speed trials.

And as for groping… He wrapped his fingers around the blade’s leading edge and smoothed his hand over the metal. It thrummed in his grip, slick with a trace of spilled energon.

“That good?” Drag Strip asked.

“Eh, it’s OK,” Vortex said. “But seriously, can you see my laser core?”

“Uh…” This wasn’t how it was meant to go. Vortex was meant to say “Mmmm, that’s great,” and then they’d move to phase two of Vortex wanting him.

“Well, can you?” Vortex prompted. Drag Strip was about to reply when the copter’s attention yet again slid away. He glanced over at the door an astrosecond before Brawl came blundering through it.

“Vortex! Hey, VORTEX!” Brawl thunked into the berth, the recoil slamming up Drag Strip’s arm. Vortex grinned.

Brawl prodded his side. “Hahahahahahahaha! So it’s true, Blasty really did shoot you! Frag, you had it coming."

“Shut up,” Vortex said. “Hey, can you see my laser core from there?”

“Unf!” Drag Strip crashed into the spare parts rack as Brawl shoved him roughly out of the way. Drag Strip glowered; moron.

“Ha! Yeah!” Brawl lent down, peering into the hole in Vortex’s armour. “It’s all grey and stuff. And, like, glowy at the end. Ahahahahaha! He almost killed you!”

Drag Strip clenched his fists. Half an astrosecond to reach for his pistol, another astrosecond to put Brawl out of the picture. But Hook chose just that moment to re-appear, and Drag Strip was suddenly quite glad that he wasn’t the one with his hands on the copter.

He was already halfway down the corridor when the shouting began. Yeah, this round definitely went to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Drag Strip sighed; frag he looked good.

His polish was perfect, his hubcaps gleamed; even Dead End couldn't deny his innate attractiveness.

Not that he wanted to 'face with Dead End right now. That would be a bit too easy, especially given what Dead End had been reading. Apparently, there was just something about Nietzsche that turned his ignition key.

“He won't be able to resist,” Drag Strip commented. He flashed his reflection a confident grin. Over on the berth, Dead End nodded, datapad in hand.

“Indeed.” He glanced up. “Although I feel beholden to note that this is possibly the worst idea I've heard since Wildrider challenged Brawl to a drinking contest. This is going to end in pain. Terrible, terrible pain. And possibly annihilation.”

Drag Strip rolled his optics. “But I look good,” he said.

There was the slightest of pauses. “Indeed.”

“Damned right I do.”

Out in the corridor, Drag Strip took the fast lane. Not that there actually were lanes, but some mechs were just slaggin' slow. Overtaking them was like a public service. Especially if he happened to give them a quick bump while he was at it, jostle them along a little, show them how they were meant to move.

His forcefield hummed, his finish pristine and gleaming.

He caught Vortex emerging from medbay, whole again and clean. It even looked like someone had tried to make his armour shine. Not that they’d had much success, but Drag Strip liked his partners dull, it made his own paintwork show up all the better.

“Hey there,” Drag Strip said, just as Onslaught rounded the corner.

“You insubordinate glitch!” Onslaught roared.

Drag Strip snarled. Not _again_. What was it with this guy’s team mates? Didn’t they want him to get laid?

Onslaught’s visor glowed. “When I say ‘report to the briefing room at 1400 joors’, I _mean_ ‘report to the briefing room at 1400 joors’, not ‘have another afternoon in medbay, and why don’t you bribe Scrapper to clean your rotor assembly while you’re at it?’”

“It needed doing,” Vortex shrugged.

“Stand to attention when I’m talking to you,” Onslaught snarled. “We have a mission to complete, and you, whether you like it or not, are integral.”

Vortex didn’t stand to attention. He just shrugged again and flicked his rotors. “So brief me then.”

Drag Strip slumped. What the slag was that? Flirting? Surely Vortex couldn’t prefer the company of his own commander to a hot, young racer with a spoiler to die for?

Onslaught snarled, catching Vortex around the throat and slamming him against the wall.

Drag Strip didn’t catch what he said next, as his comms pinged and a loud, enthusiastic voice yelled, //Hey, Drag Strip, what’s goin’ on?!//

He sighed. Wildrider; just what he needed.

//Nothing,// he lied.

Vortex squirmed, but didn’t engage his weapons. Onslaught spun him around, seized him by the rotor hub and shoved him roughly in a direction which was, annoyingly, away from Drag Strip. “Now get moving!”

Infuriatingly, all the copter did was laugh.

Wildrider snickered. //You had another false start, Strippy?//

//Shove it up your tailpipe!// Drag Strip snapped. //And don’t call me Strippy!// He cut the comm. He hated it when Wildrider was right; it _was_ a false start, another one. How the frag was he meant to compete if he couldn’t even get close?

He pushed away from the wall, then turned back and kicked it, hard. His forcefield juddered.

There had to be a way.


	5. Chapter 5

This, Drag Strip thought, was his chance.

A joint mission with the Combaticons. Energon retrieval, nothing too exciting, but something that got him legitimately closer to Vortex. Close enough to make the most of his gains back in medbay. Close enough to show off the benefits of a good force field and a great paint job. Close enough to make a move without any of the copter’s stupid team getting in the way.

He drove out in front, at the head of the convoy, exactly where he belonged.

//Don’t you just wanna jump up and grab his landing gear?// Wildrider asked. His windshield gleamed red in the dying sun. He was a good few seconds behind Drag Strip, but that was only to be expected.

Drag Strip sped up, increasing the distance between them. Vortex hovered a way back, trailing Motormaster and Onslaught. Pair of Sunday drivers. Still, the formation looked good from the optical sensors in his rear view mirror. Whichever way you looked at it, those rotors were tasty.

//You could like cling on and go flyin’ and stuff,// Wildrider continued. //It’d be awesome!//

Drag Strip gunned his engine. //Ha, Yeah!// And while he was up there, he could grab onto a bit more than just his landing gear.

//Hey Drag Strip!// Breakdown wailed from somewhere near the back. //Are we nearly there yet? Brawl keeps looking at me.//

//He isn’t looking at you,// Dead End cut in.

//He is!// Breakdown said. //It’s pointing right at me!//

Dead End sighed. //That’s just his cannon. It has to point that way. His optical sensors are located elsewhere.//

Drag Strip snickered. //Serves you right for letting them tailgate you! Should have driven up front with us.// Well, he though, _behind_ us, but away from the tank and the jeep. Slag, they were slow.

Wildrider flashed his headlights in agreement. //Yeah, Breaky, stop being such a wuss!//

//Quiet,// Motormaster growled. //Wildrider, Drag Strip, scout the area. Comm. check every quarter breem. Out.//

Finally, a chance to show what he could do! Drag Strip accelerated hard, cutting through the air like a hot knife through a bock of wax polish. The copter had better be watching.

*

The sun set, a distant orange glow beneath a pall of cloud. Drag Strip flicked on his headlights; he couldn’t have Vortex missing him in the gloom.

He sped around the perimeter, half-listening to the open comms. Breakdown, Dead End and Swindle were busy loading up Motormaster’s trailer, while Brawl and Onslaught kept guard. Blast Off was nowhere to be seen, but Dead End didn’t miss him.

Vortex hovered overhead, rotating slowly on his axis. He looked bored.

He didn’t, however, look that way for long. As Motormaster closed the tailgate of his trailer and issued the command to head out, Wildrider sped down the approach road from the perimeter. Dead End looked on, aghast, as his team mate transformed, using the momentum of his alt mode to propel himself into the air. Dead End had no idea how Wildrider managed to get as high as Vortex’s landing gear, but he did. The copter tilted, then spun, then veered off on the craziest flight path Drag Strip had ever seen. Wildrider clung to his wheels, whooping and cheering, his ebullient joy echoing loud and clear along the gestalt bond.

“You dirty fragging aft-headed bastard!” Drag Strip yelled, but his voice was lost in the roar of rotors.

“Hahahahahahahaha!” Vortex dived, twisting and turning, so obviously enjoying himself that Drag Strip wanted to bash Wildrider’s head in with one of Hook’s wrenches. How _dare_ he? His own slagging team mate!

“Wildrider!” Motormaster boomed.

Never had Drag Strip been so pleased to hear that voice. Especially that particular tone. He revved his engine, his circuits sizzling. Whatever Wildrider had coming to him, the fragger deserved it.

Over by the trailer, Dead End shook his head, Brawl laughed his aft off, and Onslaught glowered.

And still, Wildrider didn’t let go.


	6. Chapter 6

Drag Strip wasn’t fond of counting his losses. It was, however, acceptable to count false starts. He’d had four of them so far. All of them interruptions. The shuttle, the tank, that overbearing, possessive glitch of a commander, and his own dumb-aft team mate. What had felt like a win back in medbay no longer had the ring of a victory about it.

He paced his room, his force field engaged so that he didn’t scuff his finish.

He was going to kill Wildrider. Seriously kill him; knock off his head and use it as a lampshade, tear off his arms and shove them down the garbage chute.

That is, if there was anything left over after Motormaster was done with him.

Drag Strip kept getting twinges through the gestalt bond, shame and pain and something resembling remorse. But he blocked them out. Wildrider deserved it. This was the worst possible betrayal.

And he had no idea where Vortex was. Drag Strip hadn’t seen him crash, but he’d heard it. The two of them laughing, giddy and happy and _frag_ it wasn’t fair. It should have been him! But he wasn’t mad enough to launch himself at a airframe in flight. Not that he couldn’t have, and with infinitely more grace and finesse than Wildrider could ever have managed.

But he hadn’t. And that moronic glitch of a team mate had got to the copter first.

First place was _his_ place, not Wildrider’s. Stupid scrapheap.

A thump on the door, and Drag Strip’s train of thought came shuddering to a halt. Breakdown, it had to be. No one else could knock so loud while making it sound so unobtrusive.

“Use the buzzer!” Drag Strip shouted.

//It’s, uh, not working.// Breakdown’s response came via comms. //Can I come in? I… I need to talk to you?//

“Either you do or you don’t.” Drag Strip muttered. He punched the code into the door lock, then flumped on the berth. “Fragger.”

“Thought you were re… re… restitute,” Breakdown stammered. “Not like you to be defeated.”

“It’s resolute,” Drag Strip said. “And I’m not. Defeat _ist_ that is. I’m thinking.”

“That’s what Dead End’s for,” Breakdown said. He perched on the edge of the berth; their force fields made gentle contact, tingling.

“Yeah.” Drag Strip refused to let himself laugh, but he couldn’t help smiling just a bit. “You had something to say to me?”

Breakdown nodded. He fingered his pistol, holstered at his side. “I’m not running messages for you,” he said. “You guys wanna… y’know…. I think Dead End’s right, it’ll end in pain and death and stuff. And he’s creepy.”

Drag Strip sighed. “If you made sense, it’d be easier to listen to you.” He stood, and resumed pacing.

“Don’t be so mad at Wildrider, right? He can’t help it.” Breakdown glanced up, then continued in a rush. “And don’t be mad at me! I’m just here cause Vortex wanted… he wanted… uh.”

“Out with it!” Drag Strip snapped. Wanted to frag Wildrider, probably. The insane glitches always stuck together. And how it burned.

“He, he wants to see you. Says meet him at his room at, uh, 2300 joors. Says you, uh, got his attention?”

A sudden and very wide grin appeared on Drag Strip’s face. He’d won. Holy frag, he’d won! Then he huffed, of course he’d won, it was ridiculous to have ever doubted it. He turned his back to Breakdown, looking over his own shoulder.

“Can you see any smears?”


	7. Chapter 7

It had been remarkably easy to get the Stunticon alone.

Not that Vortex had envisaged any problems. He’d spent weeks watching Drag Strip watching him. He’d given him the brush off time and again, just to see if he really was so block-headed that he’d keep on speeding after that finish line even when the line itself was constantly being redrawn. Watching Drag Strip coming back for more when any normal mech would have given up and found a softer target. Gathering evidence to make certain he was right.

It all added up to one serious infatuation.

But still, as Drag Strip lay trembling beneath him, his engine revving and rear wheels spinning so fast his axle was smoking, Vortex was surprised that the Stunticon hadn’t been more cautious.

Motormaster didn’t want the teams mixing, that was clear. Megatron’s elite with Starscream’s criminal glitches; it crunched his gears, and he wasn’t shy of saying so.

After his fight with Onslaught, he’d lorded it around. As though Onslaught letting him win had been a real victory. As though a bunch of new mechs fresh off the assembly line were any match for true Cybertronians.

There had to be some way to bring him down a notch, and Drag Strip’s infatuation provided just that opportunity. It was the crack in the team’s fresh and shiny façade, into which Vortex could wedge a lever. It would only be one small step from there to turning the whole team against their overbearing, arrogant upstart of a commander.

And Drag Strip obviously had no idea.

Breakdown was suspicious, Vortex was sure of it. The grounder gave him nothing but sly glances, and a blur of cream and blue as his aft vanished around the nearest corner. But he didn’t _know_.

It was only by luck that Vortex had managed to corner the bundle of nerves and get him to deliver his message to Drag Strip. And better luck that Breakdown had complied, probably delivering a warning as well. _Don’t trust him_ , perhaps, _he’s bad news_.

But Drag Strip had followed his interface cable and not his combat subroutines. Or maybe the warning had given the invite that extra edge.

“Mmmm, so shiny.” Vortex ran greedy hands over Drag Strip’s chestplates, hooking his thumbs into the vents. “You wanna rev that hot little engine a bit harder for me?”

“Uhuh!” Drag Strip nodded, bucking as Vortex sent an intense bolt of energy over the connection. He complied clumsily, the vibrations erratic, and grabbed for the rotor blades bouncing above his head. Frag the grounder was keen. Keen and fast. From arrival to horizontal in 6.2 astroseconds, it had to be some kind of record.

For his part, Vortex hadn’t expected the Stunticon to get his engine going. His gestaltmate, possibly. The one who’d leapt up to cling onto his landing gear on their last joint mission, and who’d clung on whooping and yelling until they’d crashed. Vortex could imagine having a lot of fun with that one. But not Drag Strip.

Strange how things turned out.

Vortex pressed down on him, feeling his way along that pristine yellow paintwork. The feedback from the interface spread a tingling heat through his midsection. Nothing to write home about, but it was all building nicely. He dipped his head to nibble the edge of Drag Strip’s helm. “You like that?”

The Stunticon groaned, fists tightening on his rotors. “Hot slag I’m gonna overload!”

 _Already?_ Somehow, Vortex managed not to say it aloud. Instead he bit down, hoping that a dose of pain might pull Drag Strip back from the brink.

He wasn’t quite that fortunate.

“Uuuuurgh, oh frag yesyesyesYES!” Drag Strip’s visor flickered, his lips curved in a wide, triumphant grin.

The backlash from his climax hit Vortex’s circuits, causing a sunburst of pleasure, but it was fleeting, momentary. Slag.

“I, sure, yeah…” Drag Strip panted, his optics refocusing, staring up at the rotor tips. He stroked one gently, fingertips dipping into the dents he’d so recently made. “You didn’t, y’know?” he said, altogether too coy for someone whose energy field was still flaring wildly.

Vortex propped himself on his elbows, and sent a rippling burst of charge along the connection. “Nope,” he said.

To Vortex’s surprise, once he’d finished squirming Drag Strip’s optics narrowed, his victorious grin morphing into a determined frown. “Slagged if I’m letting that happen,” he said.

Ordinarily, Vortex would already have lost interest. But there was something about Drag Strip’s attitude, something that boded well for the next few joors. That, and this was all in aid of a greater goal. Sticking at it would be far more interesting than not.

“Oh yeah, Mr ‘I just overloaded’,” Vortex smirked. “What are you and your depleted charge gonna do about it?”

The Stunticon’s optics flashed, his grin returning in full force. Lightning-quick, he snaked a hand around to grip Vortex’s rotor hub, tugging him closer. “You’ll see,” he said, forcing what must have been the dregs of his residual charge through the connection. It was pleasant, but nowhere near enough.

“Oh yeah?” Vortex shot him another indication of his frustrated arousal. Drag Strip gasped, and the feedback sang through Vortex’s interface array, causing his rotors to shudder.

“Yeah,” Drag Strip managed. His vents heaved and his armour crackled, but his tone conveyed only confidence. “When I’m through with you, you’re gonna know why I’m the best.”

 _Oh really?_ Vortex thought, but kept it to himself. Arrogance: so not sexy. But if this was going to work, he had to keep Drag Strip on side. Which meant resisting tearing him down, and that meant keeping him from saying dumbaft stuff like that. Vortex leant down, taking his first taste of those pale blue lips.

Drag Strip went to speak, but Vortex got in first.

“Just shut up and frag me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight mentioned between Onslaught and Motormaster is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/245484


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